The historical significance of these halls is very great; they put into material (and as we had thought enduring) form the oligarchical9 democracy, the great wealth, the pride, the sumptuous10 and lavish11 spirit of successive generations of princely merchants and manufacturers. Religion was still a vital force, but it no longer stood alone, and now the secular12 organisations of guilds and free cities claimed and received the tribute of wealth through the ministry13 of art. It was not the old art of the days of cathedral building and the founding of abbeys and universities, it was quite a different art altogether, but it fitted the new motives14 and ideals as the other could not do. Of severity, self-restraint, reticence15, it has nothing; it is all splendour and magnificence, emulation16 and rivalry17, but it is still craftsman’s art, and whatever the taste of these great and even fantastic buildings, there is proof of joyful18 workmanship and of a jealous maintenance of the highest possible standards.
Ypres was the first in point of time, and first in absolute artistic19 value. Begun by Count Baldwin in the year 1200, it was remodelled20, rebuilt, embellished21 for a hundred years, and finally the “Nieuwerke,” of the most abandoned Renaissance22{130} taste, was added to the east. Of huge dimensions—the main front was four hundred and thirty-three feet in length, while the great tower was two hundred and thirty feet high—the design was as simple, imposing23, and direct as one would expect to find during the early thirteenth century. It was a simple parallelogram, three stories high, nobly arcaded24, with ranges of fine niches25 which contained statues of the Counts of Flanders and other worthies26, until these were completely destroyed by the French during the Revolution. A vast, high-pitched roof covered all, broken in the middle by the belfry, with its corner turrets27, which were echoed at the four corners of the building by similar spires30. A simpler composition could hardly be imagined, or one more impressive in its grave restraint. Architecturally it was unique; there was and is no other rival of a similar nature, and its value was inestimable. Bold in conception, straightforward31, direct, confident without assurance, it was one great masterpiece of the civic art of the Middle Ages, miraculously32 preserved for six centuries as the visible manifestation33 of the supreme34 quality of a great people and a great art. Both without and within it had that spontaneousness, that fine, frank
na?veté that one finds in all crescent periods and searches for in vain in the following days that history always selects for particular admiration35. Analyse it and see how simple it all was. First there were three chief organic elements: the great wall unbroken by any “features,” without buttresses36 because it was not vaulted37; the enormous, high-pitched roof bare of all gables or diversions of any kind; the square, unbuttressed tower in the middle, with a tall, pointed38 roof and cupola, surrounded by four high pinnacles39 of the simplest form. It is as calm and simple as a Greek temple, and like this, also, it is final in the perfection of its proportions and its relation of parts; also its great, quiet elements are left alone, not tortured into nervous complexity41 of varying planes and excitable vagaries42 of light and shade. Forty-eight pointed and mullioned windows along the main floor give the horizontal divisions, while vertically43 there were three stages: the low, lintelled colonnade44, a mezzanine with very beautiful traceried windows, one to each bay, and a vast main wall without horizontal subdivisions but with a delicately designed and very broad course of traceried panelling above the splendid sequence of great windows, like a lofty blind parapet. The tower{132} was equally simple, its seven stories exquisitely45 varied47 in their heights and windowing, but calm always, and final in their sense of exactly felt relations. The pinnacles also, four on the tower and others at either end of the fa?ade, were as simply and perfectly48 designed as could be asked, without fantastic exuberance49 or a straining for effect; just traceried octagons with one series of pointed gables and high, crocketed spires.
The “Nieuwerke,” in its ridiculous Renaissance effrontery50 snuggled up against the silent, absorbed, unnoticing giant, was like an architectural version of Merlin and Vivien; silly and scented51 impudence52 in its vain approximations to grave dignity and a self-respect proof against all blandishments.
The great hall inside was just the same: an astonishing room, four hundred and thirty feet long, broken only by the columns and arches bearing the great tower, and roofed with a mass of oak timbering like an ancient and enormous ship turned bottom up. Huge oaken beams rose against the wall dividing it into panels, and each pair supported equally gigantic tie-beams braced54 by rough-hewn diagonal struts55. It was barn-building, if you like, but a good barn is better art than a Newport
“cottage”; and this splendidly direct “barn” at Ypres had a quality the Louvre could never attain56.
Each panel of this colossal57 and almost interminable wall was destined58 for great historical pictures, most of which had been completed, and the effect was majestical in its combination of colour and carpentry. Of it all nothing now remains59, as I have said, except a single turret28 at one end. The greatest surviving monument of the civic architecture of the Middle Ages has been slowly pounded to powder, and has taken its place with the other lost masterpieces of a world that from time to time can create but can somehow never retain ability to enjoy or even to understand. Month after month it was the special target of Prussian shells; the first breeched the wall to the right of the tower and were followed by others that started fires which swept the building from end to end, consuming the enormous timbered roof, destroying the painted walls, crumbling60 the tracery of the tall tower. For a time the burned-out walls remained, and German professors spoke61 gently and with bland53 reassurance62 of the simple task of restoration, but this last indignity63 has ceased to threaten, for{134} recently the batteries have resumed their work; little by little the belfry has been shot away, the fretted64 arcades65 have been splintered into road-metal, and now at last the destruction is complete; what once was the glory of Ypres, the pride of Flanders, the delight of the architect, is now only a heap of refuse masonry66, with one pinnacle40 standing67 alone, accusing, in the midst of ruin from which there is no salvation68, for which history will search in vain for shadow of excuse.
In sequence of time, the old “Halles” of Malines come next, as portions of them date from 1311, but they have been reconstructed at various times, enlarged in several styles, and in the end were never completed, for their great belfry never succeeded in getting above the roof. Nevertheless they were a wonderfully picturesque69 and even theatrical70 composition of pointed portals, fantastic gables, dormers, and turrets, and a very engaging epitome71 of five centuries of architectural mutations.
The H?tel de Ville of Bruges is as consistent and perfect as Malines was casual and irresponsible. It was begun in 1376, the corner-stone being laid by Louis de Male, and if there is anywhere a more complete example of civic architecture,
combining the restraint and the simplicity72 of early Gothic with the exquisite46 ornament73 and the sense of decorative74 beauty of the latest Gothic, it is not of record. It seems to come at the mid-most point, when everything met together, without loss and without exaggeration, for the production of a living example of what society is capable when it achieves a perfect, if unenduring, equilibrium75. It is a masterpiece of architectural composition, of brilliant and supremely76 intelligent design, while it is vivified by a poetry and an inspiration that exist only at a few crowning moments in history. Even now it is one of the loveliest buildings in Europe; what it must have been once, when its fifty statues, each under its crocketed canopy77 (they also were pulled down and hammered in pieces during the French Revolution), its tracery, balustrades, and pinnacles were blazing with colour and gilding78, passes the imagination. It is only a small building of six bays subdivided79 by its three turrets into two triple groups with a doorway80 in each. The composition is very subtle and quite original, while the design is emphasised vertically, there being no horizontal members which run through from end to end, though the levels are very delicately indi{136}cated by window mullions, niches, panels, traceried arches, and the crowning parapet. It is one of the least obvious of architectural compositions and, I am disposed to think, one of the best. While it lacks the Doric simplicity of Ypres, it has a sensitive rhythm and a richness of light and shade without studied intricacy or premeditated theatricalism81 that places it amongst the few very perfect works of art. It is a “poetic” composition in the highest sense, or rather it is akin82 to music of the mode that followed the Gregorian and opened up new possibilities of a more complex, if no more poignant83, spiritual expression. It is perhaps the most perfect single piece of architecture in Belgium, and if it is extinguished in the night of Armageddon we lose a thing of inestimable value, unequalled, irreplaceable, even as we have lost that equally inestimable spiritual force that brought it into existence.
The “Halles” also, with their famous “Belfry of Bruges” are a particularly noble example of the same period of artistic supremacy84, though they lack consistency85, for only the lower stages of the amazing tower are original, this portion of the work being completed about 1296. All the upper part is of the very end of the fifteenth{137} century, and the octagonal upper stage is of no high order of design. Once this also was crowned by a slender spire29 having a statue of St. Michael sixteen feet high, which must have brought the stupendous erection almost to a height of five hundred feet, for even now the topmost balustrade is three hundred and fifty-two feet above the street. Ten years after the spire was finished it was destroyed by lightning, rebuilt, destroyed again, and then left in its present condition.
Brussels followed Bruges, and its huge City Hall was begun about 1404. Compared with Arras, Bruges, or Louvain, it is dry and somewhat unimaginative, with a curious modern look that may, in part, be due to very drastic restorations and to the devilish ingenuity86 in destruction of the French Revolutionists. In the beginning, however, it failed in subtle proportions, and in point of composition as well. Its belfry, graceful87 as it is, is thin and artificial in effect, while the fa?ade is formal without the grave majesty88 of Ypres, rich without the sensitive refinement89 of Bruges or the riotous90 exuberance of Louvain. This is not to condemn91 it as bad; except for the supreme qualities of the three monuments last mentioned it would stand high in the architec{138}tural scale, but it is impossible to avoid comparisons, and through these it suffers, perhaps unjustly.
Less than fifty years after Brussels came Louvain, and so far as good art is concerned the three-quarters of a century since Bruges has not been altogether well spent. As in the case of religious architecture, an ungoverned passion for beauty and craftsmanship92 has resulted in the destruction of the sane93 and noble balance in such churches as Reims, such civic halls as Bruges and Ypres, while nothing is left but an almost impossible luxuriance, as of a northern flower forced in the hot, moist air of a greenhouse. The H?tel de Ville of Louvain, spared by some inconsequent and unnatural94 whim95 of those who wrecked96 all the city around and gave over the priceless libraries of the university to the flames, is one of the smallest of its kind in Belgium; it is only one hundred and thirteen feet long, forty-one feet wide, and seventy feet to the level of its parapet—about the dimensions, let us say, of an average New York dwelling97 of the better class. It is less a building than an ornament—a shrine98, a tabernacle for the sanctuary99 of a cathedral. You feel that you want to take it up and polish it, you regard it as you do an ivory carving100 from Pekin,
and so considered it is well-nigh matchless, but it still remains outside the category of architecture, and if you compare it with the Ste. Chapelle, you see at once that the life is already almost gone from a great art, even if it has passed for the moment into a supreme kind of decoration.
In making that statement one is led unawares into one of those generalisations that contains less than half the truth. The life had indeed gone from the larger, the official architecture, the art of the Church, of the commune. After this there was little more than a sorry tale of rapid degeneration, until the French and the Jesuits came with their new style, either clever and often in good taste at the hands of the secular power, or tawdry and rococo101 when popularised by the new religious order that was the first incarnation of that “efficiency” that in the end became the obsession102 of the world and the root of the war. It is true that the new fashion rapidly superseded103 the dying and disintegrating104 spirit of medi?valism, and never a Bruges town hall or a Malines cathedral came again; instead we get the dull and blundering seventeenth-century portion of the Ghent H?tel de Ville and the showy and very vulgar Jesuit churches, such as that in Antwerp (at{140}tributed to Rubens) and the Cathedral of Arras. On the other hand, and this is too often forgotten, the degradation105 of state architecture always precedes by many years, sometimes centuries, the downfall of the people’s art, and after a great era of high character and cultural attainments107 the burghers and lesser108 nobility, the farmers and merchants and smaller monastic houses continue instinctively109 to build beautifully, prolonging the old traditions, unhampered by clever architects and the commands of irresponsible fashion, until at last even they succumb110 and their art falls to the dead level of the stupid artifice111 that for long had prevailed amongst the great of earth.
So in France while the barbarities of the Louvre were being perpetrated, the loveliest little chateaux and farms and village churches were rising almost as though nothing had happened; so in Germany, Heidelberg and Dresden could not prevent the Tyrol and Rothenbourg, Hildesheim and the Black Forest and the Rhineland from creating the eternally delightful112 timber houses that far more exactly expressed a racial quality that was to endure in all its fineness, until the end of the nineteenth century saw its ending as well. So in England, Henry VIII and Edward VI might de{141}stroy the then vital art, and Elizabeth might expunge113 its very memory, building ridiculous semi-German conceits114 to the grief of the judicious115; nevertheless the deep-lying tradition prevailed outside court circles and those of the Erastianised Church, and the sixteenth-century domestic architecture of the Cotswolds, of Surrey, Suffolk, Norfolk, and Essex—indeed of almost every county in England—was, in its way, just as good architecture as that which universally prevailed before the “Great Pillage.”
Precisely116 the same thing happened in Belgium, and half the visual charm of cities such as Bruges, Tournai, Termonde, Ypres, and of all that countryside that has not been devastated117 by the insane cult106 of coal and iron, is due to the colloquial118 domestic architecture of its crooked119 old streets, its wide-spread market-places, and its drowsy120 canals and winding121 quays122. In the language of the schools there is no “architecture,” properly speaking, in the Quai aux Avoines, or the Grand Béguinage, or the old almshouses of the Abbaye de St. Trond in Malines, along the banks of the Dyle in murdered Louvain, on the Quai aux Herbes in Ghent, the market-place in Ypres, the Quai du Rosaire, and the Quai Verte in Bruges.{142} All the same, in the simple and na?ve houses and hospitals and convents, with their windows and doors where they are wanted, their big roofs and gables and friendly chimneys, their frank use of native materials, and their almost unfailing sense of pleasant proportions, we have what thus far no school has been able to teach.
In the earlier work—early, that is, for domestic architecture, say of the sixteenth century—while there is great individuality, each burgher expressing himself and his own tastes to the full, there is a very courtly regard for his neighbours, and a curious sense of restraint in the light of what the city itself might expect from its citizens. There is a well-bred uniformity of scale, a reticence in detail, a total lack of jealous emulation that speaks well for the self-respect of the old builders. Most of the great houses of the preceding century are gone, either razed123 entirely124 or mutilated and degraded to base uses; Bruges, for example, that once was rich in sumptuous mansions125 of nobles and great merchants, has now almost none, but the quays of Ghent still retain their fine rows of guild-houses and dwellings126, and until a year ago Ypres once had them also, that are models of fine civic architecture (and of civic{143} spirit as well), and might well serve as such to a more chaotic127 and unbalanced generation. They are usually three stories high, with three more in the stepped gables, and the materials are generally brick with trimmings of cut stone, though wood was frequently used, particularly in Ypres, and always in the most consistent and joiner-like way. If there were no other test, you could always tell the work of a good period from that of a bad by the frankness in use of materials: brick is brick, stone is stone, and wood is wood, and there are no shams128, imitations, or subterfuges129 anywhere. Whatever the land produces, that is used and made the most of, while the style of the time (mark, not the fashion of the hour or the fad130 of the school or the whim of the artist) is so modified as to adapt itself perfectly to these restrictions131.
It is not until the Renaissance that the cult of deception132 comes in, and mutton masquerades as lamb, while silly columns and pediments are pasted on where there is no need and brick is plastered over to magnify the apparent opulence133 of the owner. It is at this same time that a mean individualism appears, and each builder tries to outface his neighbor. The Grande Place in Brus{144}sels is a good example of this new selfishness, and for chaotic originality134 compares almost favourably135 with a city street of the nineteenth century. It is all very amusing, these rows of serrated slices, bedecked with mishandled “orders” and crested136 with miscellaneous gorgeousness on the lines of the sterns of the proud owner’s still prouder galleons137, and the result is engagingly theatrical and fantastic, but it is a grave commentary on a new civilisation138 that has lost in culture just in proportion as it has increased in efficiency.
It is dangerous to think too much about architecture—or any art for that matter. The thirteenth century was supreme in its achievement because it thought so much about religion and character and getting the really good things out of life that for reward it was actually inspired, and so probably thought as little about its art as it did about eugenics; being quite content to do the things it was impelled139 to do by an impulse for which it was not consciously responsible and which it made little effort to control. The Renaissance thought so much about art, as well as about its own thoughts (which didn’t matter anyway), that even in its best work there is an opulent self-consciousness that defeats its own{145} ends and has issue at last in a self-conscious opulence that is the nadir140 of culture. These builders of Flanders and Brabant and Artois and Luxembourg and the Rhineland thought as little about art as their very different followers141 of the Middle Ages, and they certainly lacked the divine inspiration that made Reims superhuman, as St. Thomas Aquinas and Leonardo da Vinci and Shakespeare were superhuman, but the old instinct for beauty had not been burned and hammered out of them by coal and iron, or reversed into an unintelligible142 jargon143 (like the Lord’s Prayer said backward) by an insolent144 intellectualism and a mordant145 secularism146; and so, even when they used pseudo-Renaissance forms in their cheerful and humorous fashion, they managed to produce work that has a certain quality that the best-educated architect of this century of efficient training cannot contrive147 to obtain in spite of all his labours.
And in any town that had been left alone during the nineteenth century, particularly in Bruges, as well as in many of those the Prussians have destroyed, everything seems to fall into picturesque and beautiful compositions that are the despair of modern planners and “improvers” of{146} cities. Here again the results were quite unpremeditated. You cannot imagine the builders of the Gruuthüse in Bruges carefully arranging their effects of gables and turrets and mullioned windows with scrupulous148 regard to the soaring tower of Our Lady’s Church; you cannot imagine the wealthy burghers who from time to time reared the varied structures along the canal and the Quai du Rosaire or in the Rue4 de l’Ane Aveugle (the names are as joyful as the architecture) or around the Pont du Béguinage, working studiously for their dramatic effects with square and triangle, tentative models, and perhaps the able advice of a “Landscape Architect” or a “Scenic Artist.” If they had done this they might have produced a tolerable stage-setting or even a superior sort of world’s fair, but they would not have built Bruges.
No, the conviction has been growing, and is now forced on us by a revealing war, that even in the seventeenth century there were those who possessed149 a civilisation and a culture beside which ours is a kind of raw barbarism; that they by force of this, and with the aid of a tradition of still greater days in the past, built by instinct as we cannot build by erudition; and that what{147}ever issued from their hands was admirable and honourable150 and lastingly151 fair. It is well for us to remember sometimes when we amuse ourselves by discourse152 as to “inalienable rights of man,” and that sort of thing, that there is one such over which no argument is possible, and that is the right to beauty in life and thought and environment, and that those who filched153 this from us during the century and a half just passed (and for the first time in history) were tyrants154 and robbers of the same stamp and degree as their immediate155 predecessors156, who destroyed the other right of man to free and joyful labour as well as that to the genuine self-government and the sane and wholesome157 democracy that marked the Middle Ages and vanished with the despots and the dogmas of the Renaissance; not to return, so far as we ourselves can perceive of our own experience.
God grant we may retain what is still left us in Flanders and Brabant. If by the triumph of coal and iron either through war or (perhaps even worse) through the imposition on territories thus far spared of the ideals and methods of an efficient industrialism, we lose Bruges as we have lost Ypres and Arras and Malines and Termonde, as we had already lost, though in a{148} different way, Liége and Lille, Mons and Namur, then by so much (and it is very much) have we lost our hidden leaven158 that in the fulness of time we rely on for the lightening of the whole dull lump of our misguided and now discredited159 life.
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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guilds
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| 行会，同业公会，协会( guild的名词复数 ) | |
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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oligarchical
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| adj.寡头政治的，主张寡头政治的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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remodelled
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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arcaded
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| adj.成为拱廊街道的，有列拱的 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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42
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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43
vertically
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| adv.垂直地 | |
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44
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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45
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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46
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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47
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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48
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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49
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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50
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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51
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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52
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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53
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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54
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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55
struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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56
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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57
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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58
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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59
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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60
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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61
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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62
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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63
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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64
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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65
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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66
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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67
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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68
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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69
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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70
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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71
epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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72
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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73
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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74
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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75
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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76
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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77
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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78
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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79
subdivided
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| 再分，细分( subdivide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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81
theatricalism
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| n.演出法，戏剧风格 | |
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82
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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83
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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84
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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85
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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86
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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87
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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88
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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89
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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90
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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91
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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92
craftsmanship
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| n.手艺 | |
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93
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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94
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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95
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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96
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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97
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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98
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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99
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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100
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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101
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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102
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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103
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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104
disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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105
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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106
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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107
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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108
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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109
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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110
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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111
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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112
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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113
expunge
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| v.除去，删掉 | |
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114
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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115
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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116
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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117
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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118
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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119
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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120
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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121
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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122
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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123
razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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125
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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126
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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127
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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128
shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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129
subterfuges
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| n.（用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的）花招，遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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130
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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131
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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132
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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133
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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134
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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135
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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136
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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137
galleons
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| n.大型帆船( galleon的名词复数 ) | |
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138
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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139
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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141
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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142
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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143
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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144
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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145
mordant
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| adj.讽刺的；尖酸的 | |
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146
secularism
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| n.现世主义；世俗主义；宗教与教育分离论；政教分离论 | |
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147
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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148
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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149
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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150
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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151
lastingly
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| [医]有残留性，持久地，耐久地 | |
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152
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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153
filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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155
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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156
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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157
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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158
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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159
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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